Subconsciously
by WLiiAfanatic
Summary: For the past few weeks, Squidward has had a lot to think about. May or may not be complete


**Disclaimer:** I do not own Spongebob Squarepants, or any of the characters used and referred to in this story

**Author's Note:** Well, this should be interesting. A first-time writer of Spongebob fiction shows up with a story that isn't a slash or a SpongebobSandy fic. I'm sure I'll get all sorts of intriguing reviews for this one.

All jokes aside, this is a pairing I've wanted to see for a _while_ now, and after browsing this section and only seeing it twice in fics that weren't finished and had everyone portrayed in a very OOC way, I decided to give it a go myself.

I haven't decided if this is going to be a one shot yet. It was intended to be, but if the feedback is good, I might add one or two more chapters. Either way, I hope you all enjoy it!

(And if you haven't seen "Squidtastic Voyage" or "Squidbob Tentaclepants" yet, you might not want to read this, as there are mild spoilers for those episodes in this story.)

**Subconsciously**

He couldn't believe this was happening again.

It used to be such a rare occurrence. He _loved_ sleeping. He loved dreaming. His dreams were the only place he could get away from everything he hated about his everyday life. And he never missed out on them.

Until now, anyway.

Maybe it was because of the place he stashed it in. He wanted a really clever hiding spot. He _needed_ a really clever hiding spot. If Spongebob and Patrick were to enter his house uninvited and find it, he'd be mortified. But he didn't want to forget where it was, either. So he decided to keep it behind a bookshelf with only the slightest bit of a corner visible; going unnoticed to the average visitor, but taunting him whenever he walked by. Of course he'd want to pull it out.

Still, that didn't quite explain why he was so intrigued by what was on the canvas.

Whatever the reason, his bedtime routine hadn't changed since the day he painted that picture. He'd put on his nightclothes, brush his teeth, walk to the bookshelf, pull out the painting, bring it to his bed, sit so he was facing the window, stare and the painting, and try to figure out what caused him to paint it in the first place.

It was supposed to be a self-portrait. _All_ his paintings should have been self-portraits. After all, he was _Squidward_. But when he'd looked at his finished work, he saw her staring back at him.

And he didn't like it one bit.

When had that happened? _Why_ had that happened?

For a second, he thought it was because he could hear her so clearly from where he was painting. But that couldn't have been it. He'd been suffering from that noise pollution for quite a while. The whole town had. That's how loud and obnoxious they were. But he didn't remember it as being annoying that day. He remembered it as almost... musical.

"Why am I thinking like this?" he said as he studied the painting. "She's been nothing but aggravating for as long as I've known her."

He knew that wasn't true before he even finished saying it. Sure, there was her horrible costume at the Halloween party. And her appearance at his "funeral". But she'd also been a member of the band that helped him prove to Squilliam that he wasn't completely worthless. And it wasn't all that long ago that she'd helped to get that reed out of his throat. Sure, it did a lot more damage than he would have liked in the long run, but she'd invented something to fix that in only a couple of hours. She'd even saved him from an eternity of being attached to Spongebob. It wasn't a good thing to do in front of the crowd, but upon further reflection, he knew he owed her big time for that.

But a couple favors shouldn't have made him obsess over a painting. It shouldn't have even made him paint her. And there's no way it should mess him up so badly.

And it _really_ messed him up. He couldn't play his clarinet anymore. Somehow, the notes that came out of the instrument just couldn't appeal to him more than the sound of her voice. Painting was out of the question. Even when he was able to start painting himself in some form, he'd include her subconsciously. He couldn't even think anymore. Somehow, everything brought him right back to that first painting.

For three weeks now, he's spent his nights thinking the same things. And for three weeks now, he's come to the same conclusion.

He was in love with Sandy Cheeks.

"But that can't be it," he groaned for the twenty-first time in twenty-one nights.

At this point in his evening, he'd ponder getting rid of the painting. He didn't need it for anything. Though it was probably the best thing he'd ever painted, he could never offer it to an art collector or anything, because that would reveal his little secret. And destroying the painting could only help him get over his infatuation with her. It was the only logical thing to do.

Squidward stood up, lifted two tentacles to start walking towards the nearest trash can... and sat back down on his bed. He couldn't go through with it. It was the only thing remotely close to a picture that he had of her.

"Oh, this is ridiculous!" he shouted. "It could never work out. She's a mammal! And she'll have to go back to Texas eventually."

This was the part where he remembered that he didn't love her.

He sighed.

The night always ended the same way, too. Just as Squidward was about to fall asleep confused and upset, the sun broke through his window. He heard Spongebob giggling outside.

With another sigh, Squidward walked the painting back to the bookshelf. Right as he was about to put it back in its' hiding place, he heard in that beautiful southern drawl, "Howdy, Spongebob!" 

He held the painting out in front of him with one tentacle and gingerly stroked the part where her right cheek was with the other. He uttered a third and final sigh, and carefully slid the painting across the floor and behind the bookshelf, leaving that same corner only slightly visible. Her laughter drifted through the window as he stood up and prepared himself for another long, boring day at work, knowing he'd spend all his time there thinking about her, too.


End file.
